


Before the Storm

by JosefAik



Series: The Falling Star [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: F/F, F/M, House Dayne, House Stark, House Targaryen, M/M, Multi, Pre - Robert's Rebellion, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Robert's Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik
Summary: in the aftermath of the Tourney at harrenhal, the Seven kingdoms poises itself for the winter that comes. In King's Landing, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen holds a tentative peace with his father, King Aerys II Targaryen. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, holds quandary in his heart, bound by his oaths of celibacy, and yet drawn by his memories of Lyanna Stark. The Dornish princess, Elia Martell, is pregnant with the prince's second child, binding the two of them to the capital until the babe is born.In the Vale, Ned Stark is reunited with his closest friend, Robert Baratheon, under the tutelage of Jon Arryn, the Lord of Mountain and Vale. In the North, Lyanna Stark makes her way home, accompanied by her brothers, Brandon and Benjen Stark, and the crannogman, Howland Reed.The realm is on the brink of war, and all it needs is one spark to light the flames. Winter is coming.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen & Rhaegar Targaryen, Arthur Dayne & Rhaegar Targaryen, Arthur Dayne/Lyanna Stark, Ashara Dayne & Elia Martell, Ashara Dayne/Howland Reed, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Benjen Stark & Lyanna Stark, Brandon Stark & Lyanna Stark, Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Arryn & Ned Stark, Jon Arryn & Robert Baratheon, Jon Connington/Rhaegar Targaryen, Robert Baratheon & Ned Stark
Series: The Falling Star [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930801
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	1. The White Cloak

The ailing summer sun beat down on the city of King’s Landing. It was cooler than it had been for the last few months, but such was barely a relief. It meant that a winter was coming, sure enough. He had seen Grand Maester Pycelle muttering about it to his apprentices, unwilling to let the king hear the news. With winter would come hardships, and Aerys Targaryen saw enough of those hidden behind every door in his castle. It was wise not to burden him with this news just yet. 

Arthur Dayne stood his duty, sweltering inside his white enamelled plate armour. His helm sat firm upon his head, but his vizor gave him enough space to see well enough. It would do no good if the bodyguards of the king could not see the threats as they approached. Aerys had decided to take council that morning, so he and Jon Darry had been sent to guard the entrance to the small council chambers. The king’s men had come some half an hour earlier. There had been the snivelling master of coin, Qarlton Chelsted, weak of both chin and will, walking with Owen Merryweather, the Hand of the King. The Hand was a capable man, but was no warrior, and lacked the skill and foresight of his predecessor, the lion lord of Casterly Rock. The eunuch Varys, master of whisperers, had sashayed up dressed in silks and satins of the east, smelling of perfumes, a sickly sweet odour that Arthur found unpleasant, but with a smile and a nod of his head for the two white knights. He could not accept that. He knew the eunuch, and Varys’ smiles could hide all sorts of dangerous intentions. The last of the lords to arrive were Symond Staunton, the master of laws, and Lucerys Velaryon, the master of ships, joined by the Grand Maester. None of them acknowledged Arthur or his sworn brother, and instead wordlessly entered the chamber. 

Each of those men were bent to the rule of the king, supporting his madness for as long as it rewarded them with lands and titles. They stoked his paranoia for the monetary gain that came with it. The Chelsteds and Stauntons had never been so wealthy as they were now. Rhaegar would change such things, when all was done. 

The prince had surrounded himself with warriors, men with more to them than simpering words. Jon Connington may be harsh and stern, but he was a fierce sword upon the courtyard, and would lead men well one day. Myles Mooton, a knight now, could woo any highborn maid with his words and ways, yet was as loyal to his prince as any man. Richard Lonmouth was not oft at court, but was a man of strict moral and ethics. He championed the smallfolk, and so, to them, Rhaegar was their champion too. Aerys may hold the support of these lickspittle lords, but Rhaegar had Whent, Mallery, Celtigar, Brune, Hogg, and Massey, and that was just from the lands near the capital. 

“They talk more of the prince, I am certain.” 

He was broken from his thoughts by Darry’s words. Jon was no wordsmith. He would have had no future as a bard if he was not a knight. Yet he spoke the truth. Of all the fears that Aerys held, it was his son that these lords most often turned to. They told him of Rhaegar’s disloyalty, of the treachery of his Dornish princess, whispered words of schemes and plots against the king’s own life. Such may have some truth, but not wholly. 

“War is coming, Arthur, as sure as winter is. Know what side you are on when it comes.” 

Darry did not look to him as he spoke, instead focusing his gaze at some point in the distance, though the corridor was not so long before them. Arthur looked his sworn brother up and down, gulping down his worry, before turning back. 

“My side is the dragon, Jon, as the oaths I have sworn do show.” 

“But what side do you choose when dragon tears at dragon. You must have thought that. We all have, I suspect, and you are closer to the prince than any of us. You swore your vows to the king, not to the prince. Remember that.” 

The rest of their watch was served in silence. Arthur considered Jon’s words anxiously. He had virtually committed himself to the king’s cause then. A part of him had hoped that all of his brothers would see sense, and turn their swords in Rhaegar’s names. It would not be so easy, of course. 

The meeting lasted a further two hours, with servants coming and going carrying goblets and jugs of wine, Arbor gold mostly, but cups of Highgarden hippocras were brought, also. No Dornish reds were served, he noticed. 

Some of the lords were quite inebriated when they made their departure. Not Varys, however. Never Varys. The eunuch could not observe and spy if he was blind drunk, Arthur supposed. He shuddered slightly at the things that the spider may know about him. Were his spies present even in Harrenhal? Could they know about Lyanna? 

He was dismissed then, with Darry remaining to watch the king, so he returned to the White Sword Tower. He spotted Prince Lewyn Martell holding the bridge to Maegor’s Holdfast, whilst Ser Barristan trained with some squires in the courtyard, challenging them to see which could break through his defense. Arthur watched for a few moments, and none of the boys succeeded. That was no surprise. Barristan the Bold, as they called him, was one of the finest swords in the realm. There were few who would be able to break through against him, and none of them were untested boys. 

The rest of his brothers he found in the tower. Ser Jaime Lannister, new to the order, lazed by the hearth, his white cloak across his lap, staring into the flickering flames. Ser Oswell stood idly by, slouched against the wall, a half-eaten apple in his hands. He finished it quickly, and tossed the core through the window, winking to Arthur, as Hightower had not noticed. 

The Lord Commander stood, as he often did, poring over the White Book. In it were inscribed the achievements of every man to have donned the white cloak, from Corlys Velaryon, the Lord Commander to the Conqueror, to Ser Jaime. Some pages were longer than others, and some men had even taken two or three to themselves. He wondered what his own page would say when he died. No doubt it would call him an oathbreaker should Rhaegar not take the throne. 

“Remove your armour, Arthur. Prince Rhaegar has called for you and Oswell to attend him and the Princesses. They await you in the gardens.” 

“Without armour? What good am I-” 

Gerold’s eyes passed onto him, up from the paper he had been so intently reading. The White Bull was a curious beast, as tall and broad-shouldered as an oxen, his grey hair the only sign of his age upon his face. His nostrils were near perpetually flared, and his jawline was harsh and severe. The eyes were the part that always astounded Arthur. They held so much hurt and loss, bolstered by the anger and ferocity that he had become so famed for upon the battlefield. He had wanted to ask him what hurt he had felt, and yet had never found that courage. There was no great tragedy penned upon his two pages in the white book, and that was the closest Arthur had ever gotten to asking. 

“The prince was very clear in his instructions. The Princess Rhaenys is there, and he says the full mail scares her. Wear chainmail under your clothes, and you keep your sword and dagger. The white cloak remains. That is the reminder of the oaths that you swore.” 

Arthur had to try to avoid furrowing his brow at that comment. It was the second time today that one of his sworn brothers had reminded him of his vows. Was that coincidence? Was he searching for such comments, due to his own inner uncertainty? He could not look for someone to provide him the answer. His decision on what was right for him to do needed to be his own. 

So he left, with Oswell Whent alongside him, dressed in a comfortable shirt, a gentle purple colour, a remnant of his home at Starfall, and set out on the summons of his prince. 

The gardens of the Red Keep were not so large and expansive as others he had been witness to. The rose mazes of Highgarden were a labyrinth of colour and smells, and even the godswood at Riverrun was pleasant and expansive. Still, he knew this was one of his prince’s favoured places in the city, and he was oft to be found here, alone or otherwise. 

Today he stood arm-in-arm with his wife, the princess Elia Martell, whilst their young daughter darted along the pathways, and across the turned soil, to the amusement of Rhaegar, but not the gardeners who pretended to scold her. Rhaenys was a wild thing, as untamed and willful as her father, with all the gentle beauty of her mother. She favoured the Dornish blood in her, that was clear. Her hair ran dark, and her skin was olive and tanned, with large dark eyes. She would be a beauty, Arthur thought, and much sought after by boys her own age when she grew into it. 

The prince waved them over to join them, and so they did. Rhaegar stood tall, a twinkle to his lilac eyes, and looking every part the king that he would one day be. He wore a doublet as black as night, accompanied with red trim, and silver and red satin draped over his shoulders. His breeches were black also. Elia was dressed in a fine, orange dress, with bright red lips, and red suns dangling from her ears. 

“Ser Oswell, my dear wife would like to take our Rhaenys to the overlook. Would you care to escort her for me?” 

Elia offered her arm to the knight, and he graciously took it. The princess Rhaenys scampered after them, disturbing yet more soil. Arthur thought that Elia walked with something of a waddle. The babe was certainly showing now, though it was still some months before the birth. Rhaegar bent down to smell some of the flushed flowers, his smile never leaving his face. 

“You stood on the council doors this morning, Arthur? What did you see?” 

Arthur watched his posture, knowing that their conversation may be privy to spying eyes. He was well practiced in such meetings now. Deception was key to surviving in King’s Landing. 

“They were all present. I didn’t even know Lord Velaryon was back from Driftmark. I heard nothing, but they were speaking for some hours. I know not about what.” 

A sadness passed over Rhaegar’s face for the briefest of moments as he stood back up. He shook it off, and the smile returned, a knowingness to his eyes and lips that Arthur had sometimes felt unnerving. He knew the game that his prince played, yet sometimes he couldn’t help but feel that Rhaegar knew more than he was telling. 

“I knew of Lord Velaryon. Myles bumped into Monford in a tavern last eve, and Monford told him that his father was back. I fear he was seeing to his navy, in preparation for an assault on Dragonstone. That will be have been some of what they spoke on, and I will have been the rest. You did well, my friend.” 

A few moments passed, as Rhaegar stared off into the distance, a slight quizzical look upon his sharp features. Arthur followed his line of sight, and suspected he was looking to a narrow-slit window two floors from the ground. Had he seen somebody watching? 

“I wish to sit. Come and sit with me, ser.” 

A certain formality had passed over the prince. He gestured for Arthur to follow behind him, instead of them walking side-by-side, and headed the opposite direction to that Elia and Oswell had taken, along a winding path and into a thicket of gentle pines. There, they found a bench, and Rhaegar took his seat. The trees would protect them from prying eyes, and the birdsong above them may mask some of their words. 

“The eunuch has his little birds everywhere here. I do not like it, but until Aegon is born we are confined to the capital. I do not know if Elia could endure a ride to a loyal friend’s keep, or a ship journey to Dragonstone. She ails, and the maesters know not why.” 

Arthur had known of the princess’ medical problems. Rhaegar had written to the archmaesters of Oldtown and had asked for a grey cloak with experience in birthing babes. The man they had sent was competent, and had earned the couple’s trust, but his news was grim. The babe was well, but Elia weakened by the day. Rhaenys had taken toll enough, and a second birth may prove too much. He knew that Rhaegar worried for her. 

“She seemed better today. There was more colour to her.” 

He offered reassurance, and it was not empty, for she had seemed lighter to him that day. She had been able to leave her chambers, at least, even if she had needed the support of a man to keep her standing. 

“She likes this place. It makes her better, but soon she will not be able to come. I have been by her side, Arthur, the gods know I have. The child she bares... He will be special. He will be worth this pain, but I pray that she gets to see all that he achieves.” 

A few more moments of silence held between them, and then Rhaegar looked to him, no longer hiding behind his mask of decorum. It was not sadness in his face, but worry and concern. 

“It is not just me in this world, though. I see sadness in your own, haunted eyes, my friend. You think of her still? Your wolf girl?” 

He had thought of little else, in truth, for many weeks after Harrenhal was done. He had thought of her supple hands pressed against his bare flesh, of her howls of pleasure as her back arched, of the moments spared talking when it had been done. It had not been once, as he had thought, but five, six times. The first had been awkward and quick, but she had not shied away.... He thought of her much, even now, when she was so far gone from him. 

“She is not my wolf girl, Rhaegar. That is some of the problem. She is promised to Robert Baratheon.” 

Silence. It was not as before, where the two felt comfortable in each other’s presence. It was as if some unspoken thing had changed between them. Rhaegar spoke softly when he eventually broke it, though he did not meet Arthur’s gaze at first. 

“Robert is a good match for her. She will have a home, wealth, strong children-” 

“Her home is Winterfell. She does not want Storm’s End, she does not want him... She does not love him, Rhaegar.” 

The silence after that was fleeting, and there was more tension to the dragon prince’s voice when he next spoke. Though he was clearly trying to sound kind, it came across as strained. 

“I did not love Elia when we were wed. I did not know Elia when we were wed. I came to love her all the same.” 

The prince rose, and placed a hand upon Arthur’s shoulders. A gentle touch, but one that calmed the strife that threatened to rise between them. Rhaegar was good at that. He always knew the exact way to calm a situation. 

“I cannot forbid you loving her, nor can I dissuade you from pursuing the touch of her flesh again. I know what it is like to love one that you should not, and it hurts. I do not call for your restraint because of your white cloak, nor your ridiculous vows. I know that a man would protect a king that grants him freedom better than one who restricts it, but she must marry Baratheon. That is the way of things, Arthur.” 

“You could change the way of things, as you promised me you would, Rhaegar. You can stop it, if you are king-” 

The prince rose his hand, a fire in his eyes unfamiliar to his sworn sword. It died down swiftly, but in that small flicker Arthur thought he saw a part of Aerys in his silver prince. 

“I cannot go to war for you, Arthur. I cannot. I love you dearly. You are my closest friend, but you ask something I cannot do. I know what I have committed to... But I do not know yet if I am strong enough to do it. No matter what he has become, he is still my father. You see the monster, I see the man who sat by my crib as a babe, who gave me my first sword, who named me to Dragonstone as his heir. I know that man does not exist, not anymore, but I cannot escape those memories.” 

Rhaegar turned away fromk him. Arthur suspected that he did not want another to see the tears in his eyes. He would not judge him for weeping for the man Aerys had once been. He could not afford to be that weak in front of others, but between the two of them he could be open. He should know that. The prince turned then, his eyes red, but the tears swept away by his slender fingers. 

“Besides, there is Elia to think of. She is confined to the Red Keep for now. I cannot move until her, Rhaenys, and our babe are safe from harm. They must be at Dragonstone, or hidden away at the Eyrie, where they can be protected.” 

A sigh escaped the prince’s lips, and his shoulders seemed to slouch ever so slightly, as if the heavens themselves were weighing him down. 

“I should not have been so harsh, my friend. Love did never run smooth, and what you feel for her may not go away. There will be chances, even if she weds him. If the two of you are truly enraptured... There will be chances.” 

Arthur thought on those words. Perhaps Rhaegar was right. He would see Lyanna Stark again, even if she did end as the Lady of Storm’s End, and mayhaps they would get the chance to share their seed and show their love for each other. It would not be the same. In that moment, he knew how Jon Connington must feel, hidden away in the shadows, unable to appear with the man he loved, and who loved him in return. 

And yet perhaps there was more. Jon Darry and Gerold Hightower spoke of oaths and vows, words that bound him to this accursed white cloak. They bound him now, and prevented him from saddling a horse and riding to Winterfell, to declare his feelings to her father, and ask for her hand. Instead, he was here, held by duty and honour, unable to escape the weight that he wore upon his own back. 

That accursed, heavy pure-white cloak.


	2. The Gates of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddard Stark, the second-born son of Rickard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, is far from home. Returning from the Tourney at Harrenhal, he comes to The Gates of the Moon, which sit at the foot of the Giant's Lance. His return to the Vale, to the side of Lord Jon Arryn, and to the company of his closest friend, Robert Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End.

The Vale of Arryn unfolded before Ned Stark like a patchwork cloak of rolling hills and rocky outcrops. Behind him the lay the Mountains of the Moon, and the peaks rose to his left as well, stretching off into the distance. Atop one, the Giant’s Lance, sat the bone-white stone of the Eyrie, the seat of the falcon lords of Arryn. Castles and keeps dotted the landscape in front of him, and behind stood the Bloody Gate, so named for the thousands that had died assaulting it from the west. To the east, he could see Ironoaks Castle, stood proud on the banks of Snowmelt Lake, and to the south of them was the Redfort, a fierce and stocky fort from before the Andals came here. 

It was to none of these that he and his companions rode now, but to the Gates of the Moon, which sat at the bottom of the Giant’s Lance, protecting the sole path up to the Arryn fortress above. Even from here, the walls seemed strong and stable, with a stoic keep sat behind them. The road wound up to it, meaning any attackers that did manage to escape the Bloody Gate would struggle to make their approach unseen. Not for the first time, ned marvelled at the defence of the Vale. This place was near as impenetrable as Moat Cailin, along the kingsroad. 

He had stayed at Harrenhal some days after the tourney’s end, so whilst Robert Baratheon, his friend and brother, had ridden back here with their mentor, Jon Arryn. Ned had wanted those extra days with his family, away from the hubbub of the tourney, to talk of the North, and Winterfell. He and Brandon reminisced over galloping across the barrow downs, racing from Barrowton to Torrhen’s Square, their steed straining to beat the other, though Brandon would always win. He was the better rider. Lyanna told him of all the high lords that father had hosted in the last few months. Mormont and Manderly, Karstark and Hornwood, Umber and Tallhart, but never Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort. He and father... Well, Rickard Stark was not a man easily frightened, and yet Ned thought he feared the pink lord. Not as a man, or as an enemy, but as some sort of monster. 

Benjen told him more of all that had gone on at Winterfell. He told him how the smith’s boy, Mikken, had crafted him his own steel sword, Benjen’s first, and of baby Harwin, born to the master of horse, who had now grown old enough to toddle around the courtyard, under the watchful eye of his mother, and Ser Rodrik also. Ned asked him about some, and Ben responded. Old Nan was well, which did not surprise him. She had been called Old Nan even when he had been at the teat, and would tell the same stories to Brandon’s children, he had no doubt. Irma, the castle cook, had stepped down, and been rewarded for her service by a house of her own in the winter village, and her son, Gage, had taken over the kitchen, whilst young Jory Cassel, Ser Rodrik’s nephew, was the latest of the guard at Winterfell, bringing great pride to his family. 

Lyanna had also told each of them her secret, that it had been her that had rode in the lists as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. The news had not surprised Ned and Brandon, and it shook Benjen even less so, as he confessed to having helped her steal the armour and the horse. The two did most things together, so Ned was, in turn, not shocked on that news either. 

Soon enough, however, their paths had parted. Brandon had said his farewells to his betrothed, Catelyn Tully, and had joined Lyanna and Benjen, as well as their guard and retinue, on the journey back north, whilst Ned had left with the stragglers from the Vale and headed east, back to his place at the Eyrie, so very far away from the home that he felt in his heart. 

Yohn Royce had taken him into his company kindly enough. The knight of Ninestars had ridden with them at first, but he had left them before they reached the Bloody Gate, for Templeton lands lay on the other side of the vale’s mountainous walls. 

The Lord of Runestone was good company, and reminded Ned of Robert somewhat. He was loud and forthright, quick to share his views, and unyielding in those he shared. He had the blood of the First Men, however, which Robert did not, and the Old Gods still held their sway at Runestone, even if it was behind closed doors. Yohn left him before reaching the Gates, however, heading further east, on the road to Gulltown. He would have been welcome for the night in the Arryn halls, but he was anxious to get back to his sons and daughter, and would ride through the night if need be. That news had not seemed to please those that rode with him. 

Instead, it was a different Royce that met Ned at the Gates. 

Nestor Royce was the size of his cousin, a few heads taller than Ned, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His chin was covered in salt and pepper stubble, and a dark mole sat on the right hand-side of his prominent nose. He wore boiled leather armour over his chainmail, and a cloak and breeches the colour of tarnished bronze. At his waist hung a sword and a dirk, more ceremonial than anything else. 

“Greetings Lord Nestor. Last I saw, you were stood in this same spot. I pray that you have moved some in my absence.” 

He spoke the words in jest, some joviality to his thick Northern tones. He felt comfortable around these people, as he had never felt at Harrenhal. He had ridden and hunted with Nestor Royce, and knew him to be a good man. As he spoke, he swung himself down from the saddle, and walked the horse towards the lord, who stood before the barred gate. 

“My duty is to protect the gates from unwanted guests, Stark. I stand my ground, in the name of my lord.” 

Authority pervaded Nestor’s words, and they were met with a grim sternness upon his face. Ned was familiar with that. Nestor was the lord steward of the Vale, and had been captain of the guard when he and Robert had first arrived. Many times, it had been Nestor that had chased them away from the Eyrie’s kitchens, or scolded them for playing along the scrabbly path that led up the side of the Giant’s Lance. 

The lord held his ground for a few seconds, but his face broke soon enough, a broad grin passing onto his features. The two of them embraced, and Ned received a great clap on the back. When they broke, the hand remained there, and Nestor inspected him. 

“You’re taller, I think, and leaner, too. Soon you will be taller than I, and I do not relish facing you in the training yard when that is true.” 

Ned laughed. 

“You will still kick my arse, like as not. You have experience that neither I nor Robert possess.” 

“Do you call me old, little wolf? I shall show you what experience buys you next time we cross swords.” 

More laughter passed between them, and a second embrace followed. If Jon Arryn was like a second father to Ned, then his trusted right hand was like an uncle. 

“Speaking of such, Robert has awaited your return. He wants to meet you on the training yard. He has barely spent a moment away from it since he returned.” 

The smile left Ned’s face, and was replaced with a weariness he could not quite explain. The news about Robert did not surprise him, yet that could not be it. His very bones felt tired, just at the thought of crossing swords in that moment. 

“He was beaten by the dragon prince, and his white knights, too. He will not want that to happen again. I will join him soon enough, but I am weary from my journey. You can tell him that from me. Has he visited the babe?” 

If Nestor was caught off-guard by the question then he did not show it. He leaned in, however, and his words were spoken in a tone that was closer to a whisper than his usual boisterousness. 

“One of my guardsmen spotted him visit on his third day after returning, but for a matter of minutes, and he has not gone back since.@ 

Again, Ned found himself unsurprised. He shouldered past Nestor, towards the now-open gate. The guardsman kept pace with him easily enough, matching his long strides. Silence lasted between them, until they were in the courtyard. Ned handed his horse over to a groom, lightly stroking her coat as she was led away, before turning back to Royce. 

“I shall visit the girl and her mother first, then I shall see Robert. You may tell him that, Royce. And beat his arse for me if he challenges you to the sword.” 

They clapped their hands together in a firm grip before parting, Royce heading to the training yard, whilst Ned instead turned away from the keep. He made his way to the small village of hovels and shacks that housed the servantfolk of the Gates of the Moon, and also those who had journeyed down from the Eyrie. The houses were rundown and ramshackle in most, formed around communal areas. The castle smithy leaked smoke from the roof, whilst Qarlan, the baker, boomed about his prices and product in his usual loud and deafening tone. It was not to either of these that Ned headed. 

Instead, he took a side-passage, away from the hubbub of the main buildings. His stride was strong and purposeful, his brow furrowed and stern. None would bother him, for they knew him to be the ward of Lord Arryn, but the hearts of men were dark, and many here lusted for coin, so his hand rested upon the pommel of his blade. It was Northern steel, and would best whatever daggers or dirks they held in these shacks. 

He stopped at one door in particular, roughly crafted from wood, chipped and splintered, worn from age. He knocked against it, a hard wrap, authoritative and bold. It was not long unanswered. 

The man who came was gruff and wordless. His beard was white stubble, poorly shaved upon his cheeks, whilst his skin was lined and wrinkled. A scar ran across the right of his face, and his eye was glazed and pale. His right arm was a stump at the elbow, so he held the door with his left. His lips were pursed thin, but he granted Ned a begrudging nod, and stepped aside. The warden, Robert called him, but Ned knew his name to be Hubert, named for some past Arryn lord. He had been the smithy before, until he had lost his arm in an accident. After that, it had been his eye in a bar brawl. Now, he lived here, but he did not live alone. 

Ned took the narrow staircase up two floors, until he was stood in the small, low-ceilinged attic room. Rays of light shone through the musty window, as dust hung in the air. A wall of fabric was pulled aside, and a woman stood before him. She wore a modest gown, a faded blue, rough and worn, no doubt scratchy against her skin. Her hair was black as jet, and she wore it tied into a braid, lain carefully over her shoulder. Ned could spy the budding breasts underneath the gown, but he quickly blushed and looked away. 

“Lord Stark! It is an honour!” 

She performed a clumsy curtsy, her hands lifting the hem of her gown so her ankle was bare. She looked tired, he thought, but better than she had on previous visits. 

“You need not, Becca. You should sit. You look tired.” 

Her smile reflected that, gentle and soft, but lax and restless. Her eyes, soft and brown, wore small bags underneath them. She gestured that they pass beyond the barricade, and Ned acquiesced, following behind her. 

The other side of the room was as small and cramped as the first. A narrow bed lay underneath one of the windows, a crib beside it. A simple table sat opposite, crammed against the wall, with a single wooden stool tucked underneath, and a roughly crafted bowl bearing crumbs of bread, a steel knife discarded beside it. Becca sat herself upon the edge of the bed, and offered him the chair with her eyes. He did not take it, preferring to stand. 

“I came to see the babe, Becca. Is she well?” 

Becca’s eyes turned to the crib then, her smile broadening and her face relaxing. She seemed at peace when her eyes turned to that crib. 

“She is. She is, Lord Stark- Ned. She was ill, whilst the two of you were away. We could not take her to the maester, but Old Silda knew some herbs. They kept her alive.” 

He hesitated before asking what came next, but it needed to be asked. 

“How did you pay Old Silda? Her services, they do not-” 

“I did not do what you think. I swore I would not. Robert found me like that. I do not pretend that he loved me, nor even that he wants me still, now he has had me, but I swore for Mya. I would be honest for her. Silda said I could owe her the coin.” 

Ned bowed his head, his brow furrowing slightly, nostrils flared as he thought. Bastards were different here. In the North they were a shame, born by dishonour, but offered a home. They would go to the Wall, when they were of an age, or serve at the keep of a trueborn brother. Most importantly, they were rare. Here they were common. Many lords of the Vale had at least one. Robert had told Ned of three; one at Storm’s End, another begot in the brothels of King’s Landing, and then one here. They each bore different names, one a Storm, another a Waters, and the last a Stone. Mya Stone. 

“Robert should pay for the babe. Did he?” 

Becca hesitated before responding. 

“He said he would’ve, but he had spent his coin at the tourney. On women and drink. I thought.” 

That was like Robert. He rarely thought to the future of his coin, and instead focused on what he could gain in the moment. The pleasures he could gain from a woman were more of more import to him than the aftermath for the girl, like Becca. 

“Then you may have my coin. Robert is as a brother to me, and so she is like my niece. The coin should see her fed and clothed, too. A lord’s blood runs through her. She should not be found wanting. You do her well, Becca, but allow this, not out of charity, but out of love and kinship.” 

Becca took his hand first, and then his coin, after some weak platitudes. She had been a whore before Robert, little more than six and ten. There was still some of that girl about her now, young and naïve, but she was wise enough to see through Robert. Ned loved his friend dearly, but he saw the effect of him. 

He stroked the babe’s hair when all was done. It was a down of black, and even now, her eyes were a startling blue, like lightning in a stormy sky. He knew those eyes well enough. They were Robert’s eyes, well and true. 

Hubert showed him out then, back to the alleyways of the Gates. He thanked the old man for his hospitality. He cared for Becca and Mya, offering them room and board, and charging no coin. Ned knew not why, but something about the girl inspired kindness in his old heart. 

He sighed, and reluctantly made his way to the training yard. The sound of steel-on-steel rung in his ears, echoing through his thoughts. He was pulled from them at the sound of the bellows of triumph. The bellows were nothing new to him. They were Robert’s. 

The storm lord stood over his defeated opponent, sword in hand, clad in his Baratheon armour. His squire, a serving boy of ten, held his stag’s head helm, blessed with antlers and vizor. Robert’s beard was thick and black, his hair long. Even from here, his eyes sparkled a shocking blue, the same as the bastard girl’s. It did not take him long to spot Ned’s approach either. 

“Ned! You come at last, my old friend! I had thought you had run off to Jon rather than face me at the sword!” 

The training yard was abuzz with men, mostly guards and men-at-arms, with a few knights also. Ser Oscar Waynwood, the castle’s master-at-arms, stood watching Robert with some pride and awe. He clasped a dented shield, the black wheel of his clan painted upon the front, the wood chipped. 

“More like you hoped I would not come, Robert. Nestor already told me that he heard you whimper when you were told I was coming. Perhaps you tire of beating boys, or perhaps they are all you can beat.” 

Laughter echoed from the onlookers. Ned spied Nestor Royce stood at the back, a glint in his eyes. Robert joined the laughter, boisterous and bold. He gestured for his squire, who swiftly pulled the armour away. Robert wore chainmail underneath. 

“You want to fight without armour, Stark? It will not spare you my strength. All it will do is provide you more bruises to lick on the morrow.” 

They started to circle each other then, like wolves watching their prey. Only one of them was a wolf, though, and the stag was prey, of course. What stag could slay a wolf? 

“You may give me some bruises, Baratheon, but I should bet that you will have more. You will need let me know though, my friend, if I provide you more than the dragon prince.” 

That brought forth a mighty roar from his old friend, and Ned felt perhaps he had touched a nerve. Robert charged first, and Ned responded, swinging his sword around in a mighty arc, meeting with a mighty clash of steel.


	3. Greywater Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Departing Harrenhal, Howland Reed makes his way home, with memories of a love he cannot touch, and knowledge that he knows must go unsaid.

Howland was glad to find the Northern air had not changed in his absence. It was warm and oppressive in the south, but here it was cool, with a bite to it that would keep you alert, should your mind err from the path. It was not yet winter, though it was coming, so the kingsroad was clear of snow. Perhaps that would be less true further north, but right now they were only on the edge of the Stark lands. The kingsroad had been reduced to little more than a wooden walkway, sat atop the mud and marsh of the Neck. It did not run straight, for paths in these lands were rarely safe and true. No, this route had been planned by crannogmen, for only they knew the knolls and pits, and where it was safe to place your feet. 

What few wagons the Starks had brought with them had struggled at first, so Brandon, who was in charge of the procession being Lord Rickard’s eldest son, had commanded that anything that could be carried was, and so many of the horses and mules were weighed down with pots, pans and coats of armour, so that the load was well spread. 

Not all the lords had chosen to travel back with the Starks. Lord Manderly had taken his ships back to White Harbour, along with the Lords Locke and Woolfield, whilst Lord Dustin had led his horses back to Barrowton the day before the Stark procession was due to leave, taking his young wife with him. Those lords that had chosen to ride back in the procession rode at the front, along with Brandon. They were the lords Mormont, Glover, Tallhart, Ryswell, Karstark, and Wull. Ser Rodrik Cassel had been given the honour of riding with them, also. Howland had been asked, but he had not wished the fuss. The head of a procession was not his place. 

Instead, he had chosen to ride with Lyanna and Benjen. The Stark siblings did not have their one place in the train, and so rode up and down it, sometimes near the front, and sometimes the back. When they had ridden alongside the verdant fields of the Reach, Lyanna had spurred her steed and galloped across them, with he and Benjen on the heels of her horse, but they could never quite catch her. She never laughed quite the same as when she rode horseback, with the wind through her hair. 

There was no riding away from the path for them now, however. To stray too far from the boards and tracks of the Kingsroad when it passed through the Neck could mean death. The wilds of his homeland were treacherous, and only a trained eye could spot the telltale signs of safe ground. Because of this, Lyanna Stark was stuck to following the path, and was not so happy about it. 

“I just don’t understand why he need act like father. I am not his girl to protect. I do not require being wrapped in cotton under constant watch from Brandon.” 

The night before, the eldest Stark sibling had come to their tent. Howland had sniffed the faint smell of ale upon his breath before he started speaking. He had commanded Lyanna to stick to the path, and had threatened to make her ride under watchful eye if she did not, regardless of the fact that she likely rode with the most watchful eye in the procession. Howland by her side would do more to protect her than any of the Stark household guards. It had angered Lyanna, who had spent much of the morning flitting between complaining of her overbearing brother or sitting in sullen silence, a scowl plastered upon her features. 

Benjen did his best to reason with her, but he stumbled over his words, and always seemed to make her mood fouler. Howland thought it best to keep quiet and allow her to vent. 

“He means no harm. He is your brother and thinks he need to protect you.” 

“I protected myself well enough when I unhorsed those three knights, did I not?” 

That was true. Lyanna had come clean to him soon after she had told her siblings. She had rode under the sigil of the laughing weirwood. It had been she that had unhorsed the two knights of Frey, and the lord of Blount. She said she did it for him, to teach the squires a lesson, though in truth Howland thought she had taken the chance for herself. He remembered a tale that his father had once told him of a southron bastard wench who had fought as a mystery knight in some grand tourney, and had been chosen to serve as sworn sword to some dragon queen. Perhaps Lyanna had wanted such merits; such freedom. Either way, she had been forced to keep her head low after that. The king had not been long leaving the tourney after the lists were done, still ranting about the traitorous knight of the laughing weirwood. His son, the dragon prince, a gallant and handsome knight, had stayed some two days after, but had also gone by the time the Starks left. Few lords had remained after the king left. 

Howland had been in Lyanna’s company when she had seen her betrothed on his way, a short journey back to the Vale of Arryn. It had been old and frosty as farewells go, though he suspected the young storm lord had not seen it that way. He had bounced around like the pompous stag he was, more brawn than brain. That had been the day before Prince Rhaegar’s departure. 

It had been that day that Howland remembered best. With the prince had gone much of his party, including two of the white cloaks, the Sword of the Morning and the Knight of the Bats. With them had gone the lords Mallery, Cressey, and Bar Emmon, and the young lord of griffins, a fiery haired warrior. Also in that party had been the princess, Elia Martell, Lyanna had called her, and her serving women. Amongst them had been Ashara Dayne. 

They had not spoken at her departure, but she had talked with ned. There had been some tactility on her part, making the quiet wolf uncomfortable. It had made him uncomfortable, after the night they had spent together. He had gone to the south a maiden to the touch of a woman. He would not return one. Still, she had at least glanced his way, so he had not been forgotten. 

Silence pervaded their company for minutes after the last exchange, but eventually Benjen piped up again. 

“Have you ever fought a lizard-lion, Howland?” 

The boy was inquisitive, and always wished to know all that he could. The ways of the Neck were strange to him, so often those questions came back to that. 

“Fought one? No. I have seen them, moving underneath the surface of the marsh, as silently as a ghast, but never fought one. I have tasted their meat, though, for some hunters do set traps for them. They are fierce quick and strong. Once they have bitten you with their teeth you are gone.” 

The night before, they had made camp not long into the lands of the Neck, a few leagues north of the Twins. Benjen had been eager to spot a wisp over the marsh, and had pestered Howland to show him one. His green eyes had spotted one, hiding away behind the mesh of branches and vines, but Benjen had been unable to see it. There had definitely been one there, though. Perhaps his eyes had just not been well trained enough to see it. 

Their passing over the Twins had been a fraught one for Howland. They had travelled west of the green fork, so that Brandon could see his betrothed, Catelyn Tully, on her way back to Riverrun. That had meant crossing at the seat of the Freys. Brandon had made him ride in one of the wagons, to avoid any needless conflict. The men of the crannogs held little love for the knights of the twin towers, and such feelings were held in reverse. 

The wagon had been uncomfortable and cramped. Howland had found himself sandwiched between racks of armour and crates of salted meat, which had at least blocked him from sight. He had expected the wagons to be searched, but fortunately they hadn’t been. Old Lord Frey was infamously stubborn, and discovery of a crannogman aboard the wagon may have seen the Stark retinue stuck on the western side of the river for weeks. 

Lyanna stayed silent for some time longer, prompting Howland to worry that perhaps she would not say a word again before he had to leave them. He would not pass through the ruins of Moat Cailin, but instead head on a worn side-path through the brush and marsh, known only to the crannogmen. He had his three-pronged spear, and that was all he would need to return safely home. She did, however, break the silence. 

“Do you still see direwolves in the Neck, Howland?” 

He hesitated to answer that. Direwolves had supposedly been driven to extinction in the lands south of the Wall generations passed. The Neck, however, was wild and expansive. Many creatures long forgotten still yet survived in its murky embrace. 

“I have heard tales of wolves larger than men, Ly, but never have I seen one. If direwolves do live in the Neck then they keep themselves well hidden.” 

He wondered why she had asked him that out of the blue, but such thoughts were soon replaced when Lyanna started talking to Benjen about the lists. Howland was captivated by how much Benjen knew about each of the knights. He knew about the past tourneys of Barristan the Bold, and how he had joined as a mystery knight before he was even a man grown. He knew all about how Yohn Royce trained daily in his ancestral bronze, runed armour. And he knew all about how The Sword of the Morning had won the right to bear Dawn, through feats of bravery and chivalry, as was the Dayne way. 

The topic of Arthur Dayne brought Howland back to his dreams of Ashara. They had only spent one night together, and in truth that had been little to speak of, hiding away by the banks of the God’s Eye. He had spent himself first at just her touch, though the second time he had at least got inside her lips. She had climaxed too, she assured him, though his mind had worried if that had been why she had spoken only to Ned upon the day of their departure. 

It was not so long after that moment that he made his departure. 

The procession halted so as he could say his goodbyes. Lyanna and Benjen dismounted with him, and even Winterfell’s wild wolf came back from the head of the train to bid him farewell. Brandon Stark scared Howland somewhat. There was something about the fierce intensity and raw strength that others would find endearing and swear their loyalty for, but Howland found it unnerving. He much preferred the sombreness of the other brother, Ned, to the eldest, but Ned had gone to the Vale, and he was not here, so to Brandon he said his goodbyes. 

Benjen was more heartfelt. Howland offered him a hand, but the young pup instead took an embrace, wrapping his lean arms around him, and squeezing. Ben was a few years Howland’s junior, but he already stood taller. Still, he was sincere and earnest, and Howland liked that. 

Lyanna gave him an embrace also, and a peck on the cheek for good measure. He promised he would visit Winterfell soon enough, whenever Ned next returned from the Eyrie, and that he would have ravens sent to them in the meantime, though few were the birds who knew the way back to Greywater Watch. Then they were gone, and he was, once again, alone. 

The marshes of the Neck were treacherous, but Howland knew them well, and tracked the path with ease. When he had gone south, he had taken a boat along the Green Fork, and had passed underneath The Twins during the dead of night, lit only by a small lantern. He had left that boat upon the banks of the God’s Eye, however, and so he would need to walk the rest of the way to Greywater Watch. 

From time to time he spotted movement amongst the foliage, but it did not scare him. Lizard-lions kept to themselves when undisturbed, and most of the poisonous wildlife in the wilds of the Neck were harmless unless riled. He saw a crannogman hunting party once, passing through the trees as quiet as ghosts, but he left them undisturbed and went on his own way. 

He tried to escape the gaze of her flashing lilac eyes as he walked, but Ashara Dayne would not leave him. It was the song of her laughter, the electric touch of her skin, the haunting beauty to her pale face, juxtaposed by the raven black of her hair. He was captivated, but he had best forget her. Crannogmen rarely married outside the Neck, and even then it would be to the daughter of a Northern house, not some family as far south as the Daynes of Starfall. 

“Ooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the Earth...” 

Howland allowed his voice to fill the sombre silence. He was sweet of tune, and sung well. This was one of the few songs his father had taught him when he was younger. It was said to be a song of the Children of the Forest, and when he sang the wooded marshland around him seemed to come alive. The frogs seemed to croak the tune, and the leaves rustled in the wind. When the song was done, Howland stopped stock still, and smiled. These were the sounds of home, and he had missed them. 

For all he had learned in the south, about the Starks of Winterfell, or Ashara Dayne of Starfall, the Neck was his place, and it was where he knew the ways. Here he could sing, and know that his verse would be met by nature’s chorus. Such things were lost even in the wastes of the North. This was where the magic of the Children still lived. 

His journey neared its end deep into the afternoon. The sun had been and gone, less sweltering than it had been on the day of his departure. He knew what that meant. Summer was coming to an end, and with it would come the winds of winter. 

At last, he stumbled out of the brush, and onto the shores of a bayou. The standing water was surrounded by springy moss and lichen, with a bed of reeds raised from the watery depths. Lilypads dotted the surface of the hidden lake, and buzzing insects skirted the water’s edge, though they knew to leave Howland alone. At the centre of the water floated Greywater Watch, buoyed above it by some unknown force. Around the edge of the water sat small, reed boats, crude wooden oars laid across them. He found the closest, and pushed it off, leaping into it as if second nature. 

The water was gentle here, unaffected by a wind that struggled to break through the barrier of trees and marsh. He remembered the choppy waters of the God’s Eye and the rapids of the Green Fork, and was glad he had left them behind for this more tranquil journey. He sung a traditional crannog rowing song as he slipped along the top of the water, getting ever closer to home. Again he was met in return, but this time by the voices of his own kind, whether it be fisherman on the lake itself, or washerwomen along the banks. He called for them, and the people of the Neck responded. 

No party awaited him on the shore, save for one man who silently took the boat and the oar. Howland made his own way to the ancient stone walls of Greywater. Moss grew here, too, and, in truth, much of the wall was decrepit. House Reed had little need for protection here, for what outside could bring an army through the Neck? If the land didn’t thin their herd then the poison darts would. 

It was inside the walls that Howland met his father. There was no falling to the knee here, just an embrace as men. His father’s clasp was tight and strong, a testament to the love that each held for the other. 

Lucen Reed was no taller than Howland, with a stubble beard of chestnut brown, and the same flashing green eyes. Some grey ran through his hair now, a sign of his forty years. His face was crested by a few wrinkles, and bags had formed under his eyes, though that was a new sight to Howland. They did not speak at first, until they were alone in the lord’s chambers, a small solar, more an afterthought than anything else. 

“Did you found what you sought in the south, Howland?” 

There was no wine for these meetings. The crannogmen could not grow the grapes themselves, and trade outside the Neck was little, save for with the Northern families and villages closest to the Northern borders. Instead, Howland held a goblet of spiced mead. 

“I met with the Starks at Harrenhal, and visited the isle of the Green Men as you suggested. It did little to clear my mind, father.” 

Lucen grunted, a sign that he understood what Howland was experiencing. 

“The power of sight is a gift and a curse, my boy. You may see what needs to be, but know not what to do with it. Still, if what you say is true then I feel we should tell Lord Rickard...” 

“Tell him what, father? All I have seen is that the four wolves are each important. I know nothing else. The Green Men told me that the future must remain undisturbed, and that when the time comes, I myself will play a part. We cannot tell him.” 

Howland looked around the room, anywhere to avoid looking at his father. He knew what Lucen Reed must be feeling, for he had been feeling similar. Since their oaths were first sworn, the men of House Reed had kept their loyalty to the Starks of Winterfell, so what they did now felt like treachery. It was worse now he knew them, for Ned, Lyanna and Benjen were good people, and to keep such knowledge from them hurt his being. Yet it must be done. 

“If the Green Men say it should be this way then we have to follow.” 

Lucen took a few steps closer to him, extending his arms again. A second embrace came, and Howland fell into it. He had lost his mother some years before, when a sickness had spread across the marshes, and had no siblings, either. His father was all he had, and so such signs of affection were not uncommon, for each knew the pain that the other felt when they remembered her. 

“I know you, Howland. When the time comes, you will make the right choice. Know that. Whatever you choose, it will be for the best. Perhaps not for yourself, but for the people that matter more. Remember that, and keep it to your heart. I shall not be here forever, and one day you will rule in my stead, with a son of your own. Should he know the pain that you know now, you must be strong for him, too.” 

Their embrace ended, and Lucen returned to look from the window, a narrow slit in the stone. Even here, moss grew. 

“A winter is coming. Perhaps not tomorrow, but soon enough. We best hope that when the time comes, we are all strong enough to do what must be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, readers. For those of you reading live, I appreciate that there was a bit of a gap between this and the last chapter. Life has been a bit hectic, so that hasn't helped, but I have also been trying to get back on the wagon of a different project at the same time, so that has been part of it (if you like the Targaryens then that might be for you). I hope that the next chapter will take less time to come, and that we might even have a couple out by Christmas time. So sorry for the wait, but hopefully it was, at the very least, slightly worth it. 
> 
> Thank you  
> JosefAik


	4. The Princess of Dorne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After events at the Tourney of Harrenhal, Ashara Dayne is no longer the maiden she once was. Plagued by thoughts of the men she has left behind, she finds the call of home alluring, yet struggles against succumbing to it. That is because she is needed in King's Landing, to be beside the birthing bed of her dearest friend, the Dornish Princess, Elia Martell.

The sun that beat down on King’s Landing was waning. In the summer it was sweltering, even here, but, for the last few weeks, it had been growing weaker. Ashara Dayne was used to the heat. Starfall may be better protected than the shifting sands of the Dornish desert, but warmth was still second nature to her. The dresses she wore were crafted from silk, and light, so as to allow for the breeze to cool her flesh. They were of the style of the Free Cities, as was all the rage across Dorne, and even in King’s Landing itself. She wore shades of purple, a light lavender clashed with a deep lilac, silver rings upon her fingers, and a simple necklace fashioned into the falling star. Her hands clasped the edge of the balcony, as she looked out over the sprawling city, and felt the cool evening air upon her neck. 

From here she could hear the hubbub of people, such sounds as she would never be used to back home, where towns and villages were rare, let alone such a labyrinth of paved pathways and hidden squares, awash with people from all walks of life. Hedge knights were rare enough in Dorne, for there was very little in the way of hedges, yet here they partied, and drank, and danced with the whore and the fishermen, the smithys and the pickpockets, all living together in some twisted form of harmony. 

The Red Keep was no different, in all truth. 

The king sat his high throne, and Prince Rhaegar stood to one side, aiding his father in judgement, but resentment simmered not so deep. The father knew the crimes of the son, and the son feared the sins of the father. They pretended their mummer’s game, an act for the realm which fooled few. Even the guardsmen sensed it. War was coming, a second dance, except this time neither had dragons. 

“What captivates your attention so, Ashara?” 

The voice broke her from her stupour. It was gentle and soft, slicing through the silence with its sweetness, not any sharpness. Elia Martell lay abed, her belly great with child. The princess’ olive skin was more tired than it had been before, tortured by lack of sleep, and her eyes reflected her weariness. Ashara made the steps to her bedside, crouching beside the sheets, and taking her friend’s free hand in her own. 

“I think on when we first came to this city, Elia. I found the smell so repulsive. I still do, in fact. It brings a sickness to my mouth, yet I shoulder it for you.” 

Elia laughed, singsong and beautiful. She wore a shift of orange silk, cut-off before the belly, allowing her the space for her stomach to grow, and a specially made skirt around her waist. Her jet-black hair was pulled back, tied behind her head to keep it away from her face. Her smile, whilst generous and giving, was weak, and further sign of the pain that she endured for this child. Ashara placed her hand softly on the shape of her belly, stroking the skin with her palm. 

“I came so excited for Rhaegar, and he was everything I dreamt him to be. My gallant prince... He has not disappointed me, and yet there has been much I have had to shoulder for him, also. I do not begrudge him that, for he has given me my beautiful Rhaenys, yet ought I want for more? A man who does not look to another man for love, as he should look to his wife?” 

Ashara knew the sadness of the princess, the future queen, and did not shirk from it. She understood it, moreso, and knew how it must hurt her. Rhaegar was a great man, brave and bold, with a tongue as silver as his hair, and looks as striking as his lilac eyes. There were few maids in the realm who would not throw themselves on his sword, but few were maids that he would want, and those that he would, instead had swords of their own. She wasn’t sure she could do what Elia had done, but perhaps that was simply more strength that the Martell princess possessed. She loved her husband, doted on him when she could, and he loved her, that was clear, yet never solely. That would never change. 

“I shall bear him a second babe, a son, I hope, who will bring glory to his name. I shall love them both, my Rhaenys and my Aegon. They shall be my prize, for these burdens I have had to bear.” 

Ashara’s nimble hands moved up the princess’ body, brushing against the breasts, but stopping ‘pon the cheek, which she cupped, her thumb stroking against the tender skin softly. 

“I do not know how you do it, El. You are so strong for them, and for him, holding such a secret for him. He is lucky to have you, for few women would have the courage to allow him the freedom that you do.” 

Ashara remembered not the first time that she had known about Prince Rhaegar’s proclivities. Such things were not uncommon in Dorne, so it fazed her little, yet she knew how others would see such a thing. The Faith already decried the prince behind their oaken doors. An abomination of incest, they called him, yet few would dare say such within earshot of any outside their order. If they knew of his appetite for Jon Connington then surely worse would be said, and it would not be restricted to the septs, that was for sure. How few knew the secret? Certainly, the knights of the Kingsguard, and others in the prince’s retinue, also. The prince did not hunger for men in general, just for his gruff griffin. Perhaps that was one of the absurdities of love. 

“We have spoken long enough on my Rhaegar, Shara. Tell me again of your wolf and your crannogman. I wish to hear you speak of them.” 

She had spoken often with Elia on her two, as well as to herself, in the privacy of her own chambers, debating the merits of both, and the whims of her heart and head. Elia had never had such trifles. She had been promised to Rhaegar, and had loved him dearly from the moment of their first meeting. The fickleness of the heart was something she knew little of. Maybe that was why she wished to talk on Ned and Howland so often. It was a strange plot for her, and Ashara was simply one of the dancers. No, she refused to believe her friend would be so. She was merely trying to help. 

“The wolf of Winterfell is tall and strong, handsome as a mountain, and twice as stern. He is dutiful, well-mannered, and kind, in his way. His shyness betrays a gentler spirit, one who takes little joy from the call of war and battle. He is a good man.” 

She hesitated. She did not wish to seem unkind to Eddard- to Ned. She thought all of things to be true, yet when spoken they seemed cruel and ill-fitting to describe the man that he was. Perhaps it was a trivial matter to reduce any person down to a few words, for were people not so much more complex than that? 

“And Howland?” 

A sigh escaped her, as fleeting on the breeze as her time with the crannogman had been, stolen from her by the shortness of time and the impatience of a mad king. 

“Howland is smart and kind also, but in a different way, I think. He is caring, where Lord Stark is distant. He is loving for the things he holds dear, his home and his people, and is wise beyond his years. Yet I fear...” 

She tried to put what she thought into words, but it was not so easy. She had thought long and hard on Howland Reed, and even then, she had never been able to truly understand this part of her feelings. 

“He loves his home, and wishes to rule it one day. The Neck is... Different. I am not afraid of the people or the animals, nor the marshes and bogs. I think I could endure such things, dare I say come to love them, if with the right person, but... Would they ever come to love me? I would be an outsider to them, the foreign woman who stole their lord. Is he better to be without such burdens?” 

“You fret too much, my friend. You need no man to bring happiness, but if this Howland Reed would do so then wed him, and bed him, for a second time.” 

Ashara flushed slightly at that, averting her eyes from her friend’s knowing smile. She had told her, of course, of Howland’s attempts at bedding. It had been better than she had thought, truly, after he had got going. He was... Caring, and generous with his attention in a way she had not expected from a man. She had seen others try to prove their worth through feats of strength, or drinking more than they could manage, but the crannogman had not been like that. There were no attempts at false masculinity there. 

“Where that we could all marry a prince, and one day sit as queen. The decision for the rest of us is not so easy. I will like as not never see him again, for he does not wish to leave his homeland. It may be Winterfell for me, or some other place I do not yet know.” 

She adjusted herself, pulling herself up to sit on the mattress of the princess’ bed, her legs raised to her chin, and her arms wrapped around them. 

“Let us speak of men no further, my friend. Most of them are tiresome and boorish, and I care not to think on the rod between Robert Baratheon’s thighs, or any other like him. What would please you the most?” 

It was a simple question, and the answer was the same, spoken quickly. 

“Dorne. I wish to see the dunes again, rising and falling. I wish to feel the grains of sand passing underneath my bare feet, the warm wind whipping across the dessert, hear the cries of the Shadow City from the windows of my chambers, as merchants haggle over every bronze coin. Winter comes quickly, and I would rather raise my children in the warmth of Sunspear than alone on Dragonstone, where the wind bites and tears joy from your breast. Even if Rhaegar would be there.” 

Ashara could empathise with such thoughts. Often now were the nights where she dreamt of Starfall, and the glittering waters of the Torrentine. She would awake with a great sadness on her heart when she realised home was still so many leagues away, and she could only yet visit it in the world of sleep. She disliked Dragonstone. It was a cold, hard place, with little happiness within its walls. The Targaryens of old were creatures of fire and fury, and there was good reason for that, she thought. Dragonstone was that reason. 

“We should plan ourselves a trip then, El. Your brother would host us more than happily, and Arthur and Lewyn would escort us well, for it is home to them, still. We can sew with your niece, and ride sand steeds to all the noble lords, from the Tor to Hellholt, and every place in between. I can show you to Starfall, and High Hermitage beyond it, and we can bathe off the islets of the Torrentine. Just ask Rhaegar, and he will say yes.” 

Elia closed her eyes, a steadying breath passing her lips. She looked at peace, Ashara thought, which was rare enough. The world of King’s Landing, awash with war and politics, was no place for the gentle Dornish princess. She had made a home here, but it had never been comfortable for her. She had never spoken of this city as she had just spoken about Dorne. 

“I have asked, many times. He rejects me. He fears what such a thing may be seen as.” 

Rhaegar’s fears were plenty for such a well-renowned man. He feared the passing of time and death. He feared the fates and destiny. He feared the wrath of gods and the wills of men. Most of all, he feared his father, and the path that intertwined the both of them. He would deny such things, but Ashara saw it, merely in the way his eyes saddened whenever Aerys was discussed. He feared what he may have to do to the man that had provided the seeds of his birth. 

“His father is fed whispers of how Rhaegar looks for powerful allies. For us to winter at Sunspear... Eyes would be drawn onto my brother’s loyalties. Rhaegar would rather have us on Dragonstone, far enough from Aerys, but with no suspicion drawn.” 

Was it merely the mad king’s paranoia that limited Rhaegar so, or did part of the father live on in the son? Rhaegar spent much of his time looking for the eyes that watched him, and not enough time appreciating what he had. He spoke of prophecies and destinies, whilst ignoring the life that surrounded him in the moment. Such was the true sadness of the silver prince of Dragonstone. Some men called him the last dragon, words spoken in hushed whispers behind the back of the king, but they were wrong. Rhaegar was just a man, and he carried much of the same flaws as any other. 

“Then I will speak with Arthur, and we shall spirit ourselves away, with the Sword of the Morning as our protection. We can go by ship, or ride to Wyl and Yronwood, and then on to Sunspear. I just-” 

“You speak flights of fancy and fairy-tale, Ashara.” 

Elia had wrested whatever peace had taken over away, and now sadness reigned upon her face, her sunken brow, the lines of her cheeks, breaths hard and rasping, and the glisten of tears in the corners of her eyes. Ashara knew the signs well. 

“When my Aegon is born then his place shall be here, or on Dragonstone. He shall be a king, blessed in the eyes of the seven, and the blood of old Valyria. He will not care for Dorne, nor for the whims of his mother. He will grow on the tales of his ancestors, of the Conqueror and the Conciliator, of the Dragonknight and the Butterfly Prince, and Aegon of Summerhall. Perhaps he will think on Nymeria from time to time, but that is not his legacy. His place is here, and mine is with him. To be his mother, as best I can be.” 

Her eyes downcast, her body frail, and Ashara could see how alone the princess must feel. She did not curse her for this. She did not begrudge her it, either. She wished to be a mother to these children of hers, to be there for when they needed her. She was tied to this place, whether she liked it or not. Ashara had no such bonds. None but Elia. 

“Then allow me leave instead.” 

She did not think the words before she spoke them, and they merely tumbled from her mouth, unplanned, but not unwanted. Elia’s eyes snapped to hers then, and the two sat in silence for a moment. 

“Allow me to return to Starfall, my lady. I miss-” 

Elia raised her hand. Her face had changed, a weak smile playing upon it, but sadness remained, behind it all. It was a mask she wore well, from experience and practice. 

“I know of what you ask, my friend. I do not begrudge you it. You are not my thrall, nor my slave, Ashara. You may leave for home whenever you choose. May I ask for one thing, however, as a friend.” 

She did not hesitate. 

“Of course. Anything of which I am capable of giving.” 

Elia reached out before speaking next, grasping for contact, and so Ashara gave it, cupping her hand in her two, feeling the warmth coming from the princess’ olive skin. 

“You would wait until the baby is birthed? I will need your strength and your wisdom, for when the time comes.” 

“I had not thought of going before. I must stay to see if the babe is born with black hair or silver, and so he may have a memory of me standing beside his crib.” 

Elia pulled her in then, and embrace between the two. She had always been so gentle, so caring, so warm to the touch, and Ashara melted into the hug. It was everything she needed. It gave her the courage to travel the roads ahead, and assurance that Elia would not crumble when she was gone. She would be free of this city, even if it meant leaving her dearest friend behind, but only when the time was right. 

“Now that is done, allow me to fetch some sustenance for us from the kitchens. I am famished, El. I won’t be gone ten minutes. Promise.” 

So, she left the chamber. Her hand went to her stomach when she was alone, and felt the rumblings beneath. Was such emotional talk responsible for this? It wasn’t as if she and Elia had not spoken as such before? Curious, she thought, before walking, slowly, off into the bowels of the Holdfast.


	5. Lion in White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having taken his place in the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister, the young son of the fearsome Lord Tywin, now finds his new home in King's landing wanting, and his new master, Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, to not be the finest of kings. Whispers and shadows form around the Red Keep, with few white lights to stand against them. On what side shall Ser Jaime fall?

The white cloak hung, heavier than he had imagined, from his neck. The white enamelled armour weighed too, but not as much as the oath that bound him to them. To be so young, he thought, and to think there was glory and honour in these words he had spoken. How long had it taken him to realise the dishonour that he would be bound to, that he would be judged for? The Princess Elia’s belly swelled with child, now, and many at the court were in the throes of joy at the prospect of another princeling born. Aerys was not. The darkness clouded him, and the shadows hung over his very being, whether sat atop the Iron Throne or laid in his bed linen. Madness pervaded him constantly. Jaime had heard songs and tales of the great knights of the white cloaks, bound by honour and oath to the king, an unflinching in their loyalty. Was their honour in being bound to such a man as Aerys? 

The thronging city of King’s Landing was unlike anything that Jaime had ever seen. The houses around the castle walls were stone manses, elegant and opulent, the property of courtiers, or lords who required a residence in the capital. From the walls hung banners, some bearing the red dragon of the royal house, others the sigils of their owner. Jaime spotted the seahorse of Velaryon, the lamb of Stokeworth, the mace of Chelsted, and the spirals of Massey, amongst others. Further down the hills, the houses became built of wood and straw, thatched rooves covered their head, and the streets were a mishmash of cobbled ways and muddy backalleys, fetid puddles forming in dips and potholes. The clamour of the people echoed up to him, even here. He heard the bartering of market traders on the breeze, and the clang of steel on steel from the smithys, preparing swords and chainmail, for a war that may never come. 

He knew the streets of Lannisport as well as he knew the labyrinth of corridors and stairwells within the Rock, but it was nothing like this place. This place lacked order and control. It was a cesspit of human existence, the dregs of society given physical form. No wonder Aerys feared the commons, Jaime thought, if this was their exposure to them. 

“What occupies your mind, boy?” 

He turned, and found the broad-shouldered, plain-faced Jon Darry approaching. He was dressed not in his white armour, but plain clothes, brown breeches and shirt, with sleeves down to his wrist. A ring hung from a chain at his neck, and he was cloakless. Like as not, he had just returned from the city, drinking with members of the city watch, or from the company of a woman he was sworn off from seeing. 

“I was thinking of Lannisport, and home, too. This place does not feel it yet.” 

He wasn’t scared of Jon Darry, per se. He had faced enemies worse than him in his few years. The Smiling Knight still lived in his dreams of that day in the Kingswood, and there had been more besides him. Jon Darry was naught like those men. He was bold and gruff, with little warmth to his words. Oswell Whent was quick of wit, and Arthur Dayne was kind of words, whilst Prince Lewyn had offered to show Jaime his way around the maze of corridors in Maegor’s Holdfast. He had trained at arms with Barristan the Bold, and even Gerold Hightower had agreed to take extra duties to allow Jaime time to settle. 

Jon Darry had done none of those things. 

Jaime understood it, of course. The knight that he had replaced in the white cloaks had been Darry’s closest companion, and the golden lion shone brighter than the brown knight of plowfields any day. Grief and jealousy were a combination that created such people, and so Jaime had not warmed to Darry, either, since his arrival in the capital. 

“I remember such days when I first joined the Kingsguard. I dreamed of Darry every night, my three brothers, each a knight, and the girl I left behind. I could offer her naught but my sword, and she chose a man who could give more, and so I chose this cloak. Home never truly leaves you, but the pain of you leaving it eases over time.” 

There was an earnestness to the voice, a sincerity that Jaime appreciated. Jon Darry was no great warrior, nor a silver-tongued wordsmith, but he was honest and true. He spoke as he thought, with a bluntness, around all save the king and the royal court. To a man like this, a man of honour, bowed by word and oath, Jaime felt his few years, in quite the same way as when he spoke with Gerold Hightower. Jon Darry was no young knight playing at war and politics. He was a seasoned veteran of both. 

“My home is little to crow about when stood next to the Rock. Darry is no fancy place, a simple castle and keep, with walls no higher than most, and farmlands as far as the eye can see. Yet I have never seen a castle that comes close to it in my eye. I suspect that was homesickness once, now it is something else?” 

“What would you call it now?” 

Jaime shot back, and Darry chuckled. There was little song to this man’s laughter, but it pleased Jaime to hear it. Perhaps this knight was not so distant to him as he had first thought. 

“Age. Nostalgia. Memories of a time before I was bound to this place.” 

The tinge of regret for a life not lived, Jaime thought. He had always seen Darry as the white cloak most closely bound to the life he had chosen. Even Hightower showed a certain sadness when he spoke of the past, around the hearthfire in the White Sword Tower. He had never seen this side of Ser Jonothor before. 

“You are not so old, Ser.” 

A smile on the lips of the other man, as he looked out over the city wistfully. 

“It is true that I do not have the years of Ser Gerold. Would that I had his strength and grace at his age. And you may call me Jon, Jaime Lannister.” 

Jonothor. Jon. Jaime rolled the name in his mind. It was simple enough, lacking flair and gravitas, understated, just like the man himself. Jons were two for a dozen in Westeros, from high lords to the lowliest of peasants. Every village in Westeros, it was said, would have at least three Jons. Still, this one was a knight of the white, and his friendship was worth respecting. 

“We are brothers now, bound not by blood but by word. Each of us knows the hardships you endure now, and I will not abandon mine own to go through them alone. If ever you need to speak on such things, my ears are open to you.” 

Jaime had a brother, Tyrion, who he loved very dearly, and a sister who he loved even dearer. They were his blood, not his brothers in white. Had he sought out the white cloaks for the famed brotherhood that came with it? Did these words he had spoken now bind him more to these men than to his own kin? The Cargylls of old had spoken most the same words, and then brothers had died on the tips of each other’s swords. Which had been more powerful then, oaths of fealty or the blood of birth? 

He knew that Jon Darry was trying to guide him well, in his own, plain way, yet these white cloaks would never be his kin, no matter the kindnesses they may show. He would always be brother to Cersei and Tyrion, and no other. Besides, he had done horrid things to his own blood brother. If any of these men knew such sins then would they truly wish him to be their sworn swordbrother? 

“I shall remember such an offer, Ser- Jon. I thank you.” 

Politeness was no stranger to him. They were the watched words that he had been taught to speak as a child. Obfuscation that would keep him ingratiated to the other man, but without committing to his teachings. Of all the knights of the white cloaks, it was Jon Darry that Jaime least wanted the closeness to. Still, it was no bad thing that the knight of the plough had opted for peace between them. 

“I have been apart from my home before, yet something about this time makes it more final. I shall never know Casterly Rock as I did. It is lost to me.” 

The words were unplanned, spilled forth in a torrent of honesty that even himself had not seen coming. Was he truly thinking of Casterly Rock, or the woman he had left behind there and sworn off touching for the rest of his days? That, he thought, was something definitely best kept between just he and Cersei. 

“I cannot say when such pains will grow easier. However, I can say that they will. Time heals all wounds, and with that cloak ‘pon your back, time is something you have well in abundance. By the time you are my age, this will feel as home to you. I can promise you that.” 

Perhaps he was right, and it was merely a matter of waiting for the years to drift by. Then memories of Casterly Rock may seem more fogged. Cersei would have wed, to some high lord, perhaps Lord Stark’s second son, or the Tully boy, and Tyrion would sit uncomfortably upon their father’s high throne. He would be jealous of them, for sure, and of the man that got to bed his sister, but this was the life he had chosen, and King’s Landing, as fetid and putrid as it was, was now his home. Yet it did not feel like such. 

“I did not seek you out to speak on such things, Jaime. The crown prince asks for your presence in his chambers.” 

The crown prince? What would Rhaegar Targaryen possibly want from him, with the birth of his babe so imminent? And why would he turn to him, and not to his favourites amongst the white cloaks, Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, or Prince Lewyn? As he left, Jonothor’s hand struck out, grabbing him by the cuff, holding him in place. Only then did Jaime appreciate the bullish strength of the older knight, broad-shouldered and thick of arm. Still, he had not thought him to have such a strong grip. 

“When you speak with Prince Rhaegar, make sure to remember to whom you swore your oaths.” 

The words were weighted with importance. Jaime knew the tension between the king and prince, but he had not seen someone so outwardly make reference to it. It was if Darry was pleading for his loyalty, whilst also passing him some form of threat. Jaime suspected that all that talk of brotherhood would soon disappear should he choose the wrong decision between the king and the prince, if such a time ever came to pass. 

“I shall remember.” 

Darry’s hands dropped away at that, and few more pleasantries were shared. Jaime left the plough knight to the battlements, and instead made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast. Ser Oswell stood on the bridge, guarding the way, dressed in the regal white fineries of the Kingsguard. That would be why Rhaegar had not turned to him, then, Jaime thought. He passed the king’s chambers, and outside them stood old Prince Lewyn, the olive-skinned Dornish knight. He had been speaking of much excitement for the birth of the new princeling, for he would be the child’s great-uncle, and Rhaegar had decided that it would be Lewyn that would bring news of the birth to Sunspear. That was another of Rhaegar’s shields accounted for, at any least. 

It was, however, that his mind had been too seeking of grandeur, for he was not the only white cloak that Rhaegar had brought for audience. In fact, he was far from the only knight present. 

It was Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who opened the doors to the Prince’s chambers, a flashing smile welcoming Jaime to the ornate rooms. The Griffin Lord, Jon Connington, stood sullenly in the corner, looking out over the moat of the Holdfast, and the Red Keep courtyards beyond, whilst two other youths joined them. Jaime recognised one as Myles Mooton, Rhaegar’s old squire, now a newly anointed knight, but the other was unfamiliar to him. He wore robes of yellow, and a cloak of silver, joined by a pendant resembling a hedgehog. He was a stolid youth, with fierce features. The two younger men knelt before the prince, who splayed himself out on a chair, laughter lines evident upon his face. 

Rhaegar was the image of a king, Jaime thought, as he had done before. His hair flew in long strands, almost wavy, shimmering in the light cast by the noon sun, peaking through the window panes. Upon his brow sat a silver circlet, two dragons wrought in metal, prancing the field, and intertwined at the tail. It had been a gift from some Pentoshi cheesemonger, Arthur had told Jaime, but the prince made care to only wear it in private, for fear of it inciting the ire of his father. His eyes could be those of laughter, yet also haunted and despondent, a tragic dichotomy that charmed the womenfolk without fail. There were few he could not charm, however, whether they had cunts between their legs or not. 

“You come at last, my white lion. Come, come, sit. You wear mail under your armour, yes? Myles, Willis, help our friend out of his plate, so that he may better relax.” 

The squires moved quickly. They were not so much younger than Jaime himself, in truth, yet he felt his position outrank theirs. Most of the squires he had known were inferior in most ways to him, so this was little surprise. He made note of the especially nimble fingers of Myles Mooton, who was a close companion to the prince. They worked quickly, and with precision and expertise. When they were done, a seat was offered to him. He took it gladly. 

“I am sorry to ask you away from your time, Ser Jaime, yet I wished to speak with you. I hope I have not intruded?” 

“Not at all, my prince.” 

There was some tension in the air, Jaime sensed. Connington stood with his back to the room, brooding, and the others had remained entirely silent thus far. Yet Rhaegar seemed cheerful enough. Was it all an act? 

“That does please me, my friend. You see, I plan for a visit to your home, to Casterly Rock, once my wife has bourn her heavy burden to the world, and our son draws his first breath. I had thought it wise to speak to you first of all.” 

A ray of light seemed to shine down upon Jaime’s heart. The prince spoke about his home, about a royal progression to Casterly Rock. He could visit with the Lords Brax and Payne, and Lady Peckledon, who had slipped he and Cersei their first goblet of wine to share at one of his father’s feasts. Those hopes were quickly dashed. 

“I fear your face tells me that I have alighted a fire of hope in you, and I am sorry that I have to douse it. Though my father has approved the visit, he has commanded that you remain here. Varys says it is so that you may learn the ways of the place. I suspect it is more due to my father fearing yours. By having you here the small council thinks they hold a bulwark against the rage of the western lion. Instead, it will be Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan who accompany me, whilst you, Ser Gerold, and Ser Jonothor remain here.” 

The light had gone so quickly, put out by the madness of Aerys Targaryen, a king beset by paranoia and rage. Jaime had never even considered the piece that he was to the dragon king, a hostage dressed as a guard. Whoever’s idea that had been, it had been a clever one. 

“Then what do you seek from me, my prince.” 

Rhaegar seemed to scan him, his eyes searching, up and down his frame, before he spoke again. What was he doing? Checking to see if Jaime could be trusted? 

“I should be blunt. I fear your father does not like me. He wished for me to marry your sister, all those moons ago, but instead my father chose Elia, and slighted yours in the process. I believe it time that amends were made, and that the dragon and the lion found peace. It will be vital, for whenever I become king, that your father accepts such events peacefully.” 

Everything Rhaegar said was spoke with great measure. Just enough was left obvious that Jaime knew the true meaning of his words, without being so evident as to cast the shadow of treason upon his head. Rhaegar sought for Lannister support against his father, that was clear, yet he did not say how far he would go for such an outcome. Was he prepared to kill his father? His mother? They were obstacles that stood in-between him and the throne. Could such an image of kingship truly be so callous? 

“Treat him as your equal, Prince Rhaegar, and he shall forget the slights made. My father is as proud as he is fearsome, and a better, stronger ally than any other in the Seven Kingdoms. He pulls against the yoke that your father ensnared him with. Free him from that, and he will aid you gladly, I suspect.” 

“Let us hope it is so easy.” 

Arthur spoke, breaking the silence held by the onlookers. The other white cloak had held such stillness that Jaime had quite forgotten he was there. What was this collection, he wondered? Could this be Rhaegar’s war council? A single minor lord and two green knights were little to inspire, but Arthur Dayne... Well, men may flock to the prince’s banner just for him. 

“It is rarely so, my friend. Yet we can but try. I thank you, Ser Jaime, for your words of advice. I will be sure to follow them. I have one more thing I need ask you.” 

He found himself wanting to please this prince, indebted to him, though he knew not what for. Perhaps that was an effect that Rhaegar Targaryen had on all. This intoxicating sense that he was helping you, even when you were helping him. 

“My bride is heavy with child, and soon after the babe is born, I shall leave her side for the Westerlands. She is weak now, and I fear this birth will take more of a toll on her. Without me there, I would turn to you to make sure she is cared for and protected. Would you do such a thing for me?” 

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly, confused at the question. He was sworn to protect Princess Elia anyway. She was a part of the royal family, and his oath was to them. Unless... Could Rhaegar be asking him to protect her from the king himself? 

“I sense your confusion, young knight. Yes, I usually would turn to Ser Gerold or Ser Jonothor, brave knights both, stoic and strong in their duties. Yet they lack a certain... Guile, a way with the fairer sex. They are bullish, to be blunt. Ser Gerold did not earn his nickname simply for his famed broad shoulders, I assure you. No. I think you would serve the roll better, and you are fairer for Elia to look upon than either of the other men. So, will you protect her for me, and the babe as well?” 

Jaime thought for few moments on this. It was not such a hard decision, when it came to it, to throw his support and friendship behind this prince. Serving Aerys was not where he would earn his honour or glory. No. That would come in his defence of the prince, the next king, and his Dornish wife. 

“My sword and my shield shall be true to her, my prince. Of that you can be sure. I swear it upon my oaths, and upon my name. It is an oath I shall be certain to keep.”


	6. Rickard Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks of Winterfell make their return to their ancestral home. For Brandon, Lyanna, and Benjen it has been a journey of some length, but, at last, they reach the ancient gates. An audience with their father awaits.

The age of Winterfell emanated from the very stones that made up the ancient curtain wall. It was unlike the feel of Harrenhal, Lyanna thought, where even in the ruin she had not felt the age of the place. No, Winterfell was one of the eldest castles in the Seven Kingdoms, and such could be felt. These walls had seen the passage of millennia. The stories they could tell might even rival those of Old Nan. How many Starks had walked these battlements, war at their gates? How many had knelt before the ancient heart tree, calling the Old Gods for guidance? How many now lay in a shallow rest beneath their very feet, in the cold expanses of the Winterfell crypts? She shuddered at the thought. They stood on the shoulders of so many dead. 

The inner courtyard was all a clamour for their return. Lyanna rode at the head of the party, on the left of her elder brother, with Benjen on the right. The attention made her uncomfortable, and she wished for nothing more than to slink away and be alone with her thoughts. Unfortunately, that was not a luxury she would be given. 

Walder, who everyone now called Hodor, took their horses for them, shambling off into the stables, reins in his hand, and the horses happily following him. They liked him, in the stables. They felt curiously comfortable around the stablehand, as Lyanna did, too. He was tall and broad, but as gentle as you would like. There was nothing to fear from him. The Cassel brothers, Rodrik and Martyn, had ridden off ahead of them, to deliver news of their arrival, and they had certainly done that. Half the castle awaited them, as well as many from others, also. Brandon clapped hands together with countless heirs and bannermen who had come to welcome him home, whilst Benjen stuck close, tentatively greeting any who paid the fourth son of Rickard Stark any mind. Lyanna was left to be greeted by the women. 

Lady Cerwyn was the first, a thin, bony woman, with pointed chin and hard eyes. Her daughter, Jonelle, was quite the opposite. Her cheeks were full and rosy, and her figure more rotund than sharp. Lyanna much preferred the girl to her mother. Others came forward. Donella Manderly, the cousin to the Lord of White Harbor, and Maege Mormont, who was sister to the Mormont of Bear Isle, and seemingly just as much a warrior as he. She was even greeted by Bethany Ryswell, the Lady of the Dreadfort, though her sister, Barbrey, was conspicuous by her absence. Barbrey was the new wife of Lord Willam Dustin, and had been at Harrenhal. She was likely with her husband, acquainting herself with her marital bed, no doubt. Lyanna pitied the girl. 

When all the formalities were done, it was Donella who asked Lyanna to join them to sew in the guest chambers, but Lyanna politely excused herself, much to the approval of Maege Mormont. She wished to see her father, she said, and greet him after her long time away. His absence she had also noted, though she had no doubt as to where she would find him. 

The Godswood of Winterfell was a dark, opressive place. The sentinels and pines stood straight and severe, looming over any who walked beneath them, casting a long shadow that it was difficult to escape from. Despite that, she found a comfort here, amongst trees that had seen so many generations come and go. What stories could they tell, she wondered, if only they had the ability to speak with them? Would they whisper of dragon princes, one astride his mighty steed, the other shielded by his sworn sword of the falling star? Or of dark-hearted bastard brothers to kings? If they told the story of today, then they would speak of Lyanna and her elder brother descending into the thick mass of trees, trudging along the snow-covered path, with a clear destination in mind. 

“What do you intend to tell him?” 

Brandon’s voice was gruff, but not uncaring. He was a man of passion, she knew that, driven by want and desire, but also a fierce, fierce love for his family. The war that was coming, whichever war it would be, would take its toll on him most of all, for not all of the wolves of Winterfell would survive it, she feared. 

“I shall tell him what I know. That the prince has accepted our offer of alliance, and that he expects us to come to his banners when called.” 

A few more steps passed in silence before Brandon spoke again. He did not meet her eyes, and instead looked squarely ahead, not missing a step along the path. 

“And what will you tell him of Arthur Dayne, sweet sister?” 

She stopped. Suddenly, the cold felt closer to her, chilling her to the bone, and she noticed the spreading dampness over her fur-lined clothing, and the icy wetness that came as snowflakes landed in her dark, tangled hair. What could Brandon know of Arthur? She had been sure to... Had Howland told him? Or Benjen? Had she been betrayed? No, surely they had remained true to her. Had he been listening to their conversation then, spoken in such hushed tones? By the gods, she had never thought... 

“You need not worry on this, sister mine. I do not judge you for such feelings. You are sworn to one you do not love, and yet you must marry, for the good of the family. I know much on such a situation. I have felt the bars of that cage for many moons now. But when the time comes, I must wed Catelyn Tully, as you must with Robert Baratheon.” 

Is it truly the same, she thought. Catelyn Tully was a beauty, with a mild manner, refined features and, by most accounts, a sense of humour. Robert Baratheon was boorish and brazen in his acts of defilement. He drank most of the day, and lived for fighting and fucking. She did not want that. She did not want to be his... His toy, to use and cast aside as soon as he grew bored of her. No, they were not the same. Brandon spoke words of understanding, but he was far from the truth of the matter. 

“You have seen the man, have you not, brother? Ned seems to think him bearable, but I know not what he sees there. I am no whore to be traded, and Robert sees me only as such. I do not love him. I shall never love him.” 

Brandon steeled. She could see that. Was he angry with her for resisting this? Her brother had a temper, she knew that, but he rarely showed it with his blood and kin. Maybe once or twice when sparring with Ned, but never otherwise. She did not fear that anger, but she knew she had best respect it. 

“Baratheon is no Arthur Dayne, nor is he Prince Rhaegar, but he is no Hodor, either. He gives you security, safety, wealth and influence-” 

“And what of rapings, beatings, and bastard children born out of wedlock, brother? I would rather take Hodor between my legs than him. Yet you shall both make me.” 

Brandon almost seemed to soften at that, which surprised her. His shoulders lost their tenseness, and he seemed to resign himself to her resistance. His eyes never lost their steel, but somehow the fire in them seemed warmer and less destructive in that moment. 

“I shall speak with father, once you are gone. He will not relent on this, Lyanna, but perhaps we may find a delay, until after the war is done and Rhaegar Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. Perhaps war shall temper your betrothed, or he may even fall on a sword and meet his end. Either way, it must be done, whenever the time comes.” 

If it comes, she thought. This was the best Brandon could do for her. He would buy her a few extra moons of freedom, perhaps even a year, if she was lucky. A lifetime, maybe, though she knew Robert too well to think he would allow himself to die on the battlefield. Still, it was something, and she would treasure what little time her elder brother may be able to bring her. 

“You would have my gratitude, Brandon, from saving me, for a time, at least.” 

He grunted his approval, and she sensed their heart-to-heart on true love and arranged marriages was at an end. Family was complicated, she thought, and being the only girl made it harder. Could Brandon really say that he understood her? Or Benjen? Certainly father could not, and most of those other women. She did not wish to be like Maege Mormont, unwed and hard, seen as aloof from the rest, but what fate was being wed to rape? Where was the hope in that? Mayhaps Maege had got it right, and it was simply that she was kidding herself. Still, she had known the hands and the heart of a proper man, one of honour and respect. How could she now submit herself to one who did not? 

It was a short walk the rest of the way to the heart tree, and one made in silence, as they both mulled over the words of the other. The bone-white weirwood stood at the centre of the forest, its flame-red leaves making it look as if the dense canopy had caught afire, whilst the red face in the centre sat its mournful watch. The weirwood heart tree wore eyes full of sadness, as if pondering some great tragedy that had once befallen this place, she had always thought. Or perhaps some great tragedy that was still to come. She shuddered, more from the thought than the chill. 

Rickard Stark was on his knees as they approached, before the heart tree, his back to the path. He clearly heard them approach, as he rose to his feet, slowly and steadily, his joints not what they had been in his youth. Despite that, he still stood well over six foot, as tall as Brandon, clad in wolf and bearskin furs and leather. His hair was dark brown, as with them all, though specks of grey had crept their way into his mane. A beard ran down his neck, to just below his collar, curled and matted, with the same grey streaks present. His eyes were a dark, raging storm, more like Brandon’s than Ned’s, which were cold and icy. The light puckering of a long-faded scar ran down his right cheek. 

“You are home.” 

The siblings knelt. Their father was not one for wasted words, and waved them to stand, so they obliged. Lyanna was glad. The ground was cold and frozen. She could have caught a chill if she had knelt upon it for too long. 

“You bring news from the south, I suppose. Tell me, Lyanna, what says our dragon prince? Does he agree to the offered terms?” 

He did not ask for news of their wellness, or how fared the tourney and their journey. Just for news of his alliance. He was to-the-point, and quick for it. 

“He does, father, and he sends his words of thanks. He asks you for patience in his endeavour. He says... He says the time will come, soon.” 

Rickard moved no muscle, his lips set in a grimace. There was a quietness to the man, quite unlike the raging force that was Brandon. He did not lose his temper so easily, and when he did it was not shown physically. He did not lash out in anger, but merely slope off to his chambers to rumble slow and steadily, cold as a mountain, but as dangerous as an avalanche. 

“He sends his words? His words are wind. I shall heed them for now, but not forever. The time must come when delays can happen no more. Winter is coming, and gods protect us if this mad king sits the throne when it does.” 

Rickard stepped forward then, but no embrace was on the cards. He walked past them, on the short path back to the main courtyard, his manner as frosty as his words. 

“And what of your brother? It has been some time since Ned has returned to Winterfell. How fares he in the Vale?” 

He asked about Ned, but not about them. That was typical enough. Ned had spent much of his life away from Winterfell, fostered at the Eyrie, and it had always seemed to Lyanna that Lord Rickard had missed his second son dearly. Seeing Ned return... Those moments were some of the few where she truly saw her father smile. 

“He seemed well enough, and the men of the Vale spoke favourably of him. He has left a good impression upon them.” 

There was no emotion to the way that Brandon spoke, but Lyanna could see the signs. The sternness of jaw, the slight flare to the nostrils, and the quiet rage flickering in his grey eyes. 

“That is good, good. Arryn is needed, for the time. He is an Andal, and we should be mindful to how much we trust him. His family line is one of treachery and blood thirstiness, and we should not forget it. For now, we use him, and when the time is done... Well, the Vale should belong to the First Men.” 

The siblings exchanged glances. Lyanna had never heard her father talk about such things. He had never willfully demonstrated ambition in the south. His attention on who sat the Iron Throne was because he needed a king whose eyes were turned north, and not towards the shadows that surrounded him. Rickard stopped still, with them following in his wake. 

“The next part of our movement should be engaged. You must travel south, and take your bride at Riverrun, Brandon.” 

Silence for just a few moments, part shock, but perhaps something else. Dread, maybe? Brandon had been fearing such a statement for some time, she suspected. Perhaps it was the only thing that he truly did fear. Then he erupted. 

“It is not for you, father, to dictate when I-” 

Rickard turned on him, his voice raised, which surprised Lyanna. The silent mountain had finally blown its summit. 

“Do you think I wish to, Brandon?! Do you think I wanted to send your brother away?! To marry you to a southron girl?! These are the things that I have to do, that we have to do, to protect everyone. Not just ourselves. When the brothers come, we must be able to push them back. You marrying a soft southron maiden is far from the sacrifice you seem to think it to be! Wed her, bed her, and have sons and heirs of your own, who will make you as proud as my children make me, and pray that, when the time comes, her father honours his vows, as you must honour your vows to Catelyn Tully.” 

Lyanna did not speak, she did not dare too. What happens when the force of an avalanche smashes against the unmovable weight of a mountain, she wondered? Which side crumbles first? She did not need to find out, as the rage of the both of them seemed to subside out of nowhere. 

“I should not have raised my voice in anger, my son.” 

Rickard clapped his hands upon the shoulder of his eldest child, and the two locked eyes, strands of understanding passing between them, unseen, but ever so present. 

“You have become a man greater than I had ever dreamed. Your mother would be proud, I know that. We cannot do what must be done if we fight each other, nor if we do not work together. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and when winter comes, and winter is coming, my children, our pack must be Westeros, united as one. Besides, Hoster Tully says you have made quite the impression on Catelyn. He wrote to us, whilst you were away, speaking of how fond she is of you. It has been some time since a girl of the southern ways has served as Lady of Winterfell, but it must be done. I can but thank you for this.” 

Brandon nodded wordlessly. Lyanna sensed that any ire that he had felt had not quite dissipated fully, but he knew the forlornness of arguing with their father on this. It was one that he would never be able to win. 

“I will head south and take the girl as my bride, and bring her north, before winter comes truly. You have my word, father.” 

Rickard pulled away, his eyes still trained on the two of them, unblinking, yet not uncaring. The storm had died from his eyes now, and Lyanna saw what was left. They looked as a glistening sky, cloudy, yet calm. Perhaps it was merely the storm’s eye, but at least for the moment they were safe from it. 

“Excellent, my boy. Benjen shall accompany you, and dress you on the day. I shall see which other lords will ride at your side. I shall not. My place is at Winterfell, now, and there must always be a Stark within these walls. Lyanna, I shall offer your services to Lord Tully, to serve as a handmaiden to his daughter for the day of her wedding. Speak not of what we have discussed with the prince. I know not if Tully truly knows the affairs of the realm, and we must not spook him. You will take a moon’s turn to rest here, and be well, and then you will ride south once again. I shall miss you both.” 

With that, their audience with their father was clearly over. He left them, stock still in the godswood, underneath the eyes of the ancient oaks and sentinels, in silence, and the Lord of Winterfell, first amongst wolves, moved ahead alone.


	7. The Songs of the Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howland Reed has returned to his home of Greywater Watch, some the wiser to his ultimate fate, but still mostly in the dark. With the words of the Green Men of the Isle of Faces still ringing in his ears, he seeks out the ancient woodswitch of the crannogs, in the hope that perhaps she will possess the answers that he seeks.

The swampland of the Neck was spongy and wet underneath the trudging feet of Howland Reed. These were pathways often left untravelled, and the signs of that were clear. The trees were thicker here, forming a dense canopy, that barely any sunlight fell through. Vines were allowed to run their way through the branches, and matted themselves across whole trunks, crossing and intertwining so that it became an unbreakable, untraceable mesh. Howland found himself having to push low-lying branches out from his face, though twice the sharp barbs of them caught upon his exposed cheeks, leaving marks that would fade with time. Still, the impact stung, though he did not recoiled. He was, at least spared the bitter wind of the North here, where he was protected by the trees of the bog. 

He picked his path carefully, fearful of the quickmarsh that lay off the beaten track. Most crannogmen would travel this way in a pack, so they could be saved from the bog’s grip, but his was a journey best not shown to other eyes. He pushed aside the last of the stray branches, and stepped out into a small clearing. 

The wet bogland was still present here, but tuffets of grass and dirt poked up from it, making stepping stones. They ran off in spokes, away from a small hillock at the centre of the clearing, verdant, green grass rose from it, covering the mound, and the mud dared not stray there. Atop the crest of the hill rose a weirwood, ancient and imposing, an unforgiving air to it, as it looked down upon him in judgement. The face upon the bone-white trunk of the tree was silent and unmoving, full of calmness, peace, and patience. Still, the eyes seemed to follow him, as he leapt from tuft to tuft, careful not to slip and fall to the earth. Fortunately, he had made this journey before. 

At the far side of the clearing, he found her. 

Her name had been lost to the ages some time ago. Even Howland’s father had never known it. Now, she was only ever called Myra of the Marsh, though Myra, she assured everyone, was not the name she had been born with. Some things are best left forgotten, she would say. Myra was a woods witch, stooped and ancient, the weight of many lifetimes upon her shoulders. Her hair was grey and brittle, worn behind her in a heavily plaited ponytail, pulled tight at her scalp, whilst lines and wrinkles were etched into her face, signs of the lives she had lived. She was short, even for one of the crannogs, a fair notch short of four foot, though her back was bent, and perhaps that served to further the image. Her clothes were simple, a brown and green dress, the hem of which draped across the dirt. Despite her age and frailness, her eyes still glittered green. Not the green of emeralds, but of the bogs; a deep green that seemed to change from second to second. 

Howland had known Myra his whole life. Indeed, she had been at his mother’s side when she had brought him into this world. She did not leave her island, now, her bones being too brittle for the maze of tuffets and hillocks, and the walk to Greywater Watch would have tired her anyway. No, now it was he who had to make time to visit her. 

He found her caring for her herbs. She did not water them, nor did she push them to the sunlight. Instead, she sung to them, her words dripping with a melancholy that only Myra knew, a sadness drawn from hundreds of lifetimes that she had lived. Howland had once asked her how old she was exactly, but all she had given him had been a wry smile, and an answer that left him little satisfied. Perhaps Myra was so old that she couldn’t even remember that. He didn’t think so, though. Myra knew these things. She just preferred not to speak them. 

Today she sang a song of kings and queens, princes and knights, brought low by madness and despair, by betrayal and by bloodshed. He wondered if she sung of times gone, or if, somehow, she sang of the future, of the war that was to come between the prince and the king. The plants seemed to move to her melody, swaying in tune to her words, the stems rising and falling with every line. There was beauty in that. 

“You see the power that can be found in words, Howland Reed, provided, of course, that you know the right thing to say.” 

Myra turned her green eyes to him, a knowing smile playing across his lips. He was sure his approach had been silent, and yet... Well, the woods witch had some way of knowing these things. She offered him a hand, and he took it, planting a light kiss upon the gnarled flesh. That was tradition, a greeting of respect for one of such esteem. There were few folks better respected in the Neck than Myra of the Marsh. 

“I saw you returning, my boy, and your long ride with the wolf cubs. I saw other things from your journey south. The dragons at each other’s throats, one anxious for flesh, the other not yet keen. I saw a scarlet viper heavy with child, the sun shining down upon them. I saw a spider, dancing its many threads, always working and always watching, ever vigilant, as must we all be. How fared you, upon the Isle of the Green Men?” 

Her voices was a hoarse, raspy whisper, almost lost on the wind, except for how it resounded in his very being. At times, it felt like she spoke straight into his mind, with no need for ears. Her songs were so beautiful, yet her voice was rough through age. Yet still it held the seeds of what it must have been in her younger years, as serene and soft as the wind itself. 

“Could you not see me? I thought your weirwood gave you eyes across the realm.” 

She smiled to him, her lips faded of their colour, and weathered through the years, but still he found it warm and encouraging. 

“The greenseers are best left undisturbed, and they keep secrecy of their own. They cannot see me, and I cannot see them. This is the way. Besides, my eyes grow weaker by the day, and I see less than I did before. Soon will come the day where I shall see nothing, and my home shall be lost. That is the way also.” 

She pottered towards him, placing a gnarled hand upon his cheek, stroking the skin with her bony fingers. The nails were thick and yellowed, nicks and cuts worn into their surface, signs of a hard life lived long. 

“Now speak, my boy. Tell me what words were spoken to you upon the Isle.” 

He hesitated, their words still swilling around in his head. He had not spoken them to another since, not fully. He had told his father some of what they had said to him, but not all, because some of those words wracked fear in him, even now, when the speakers were so far away. Myra would knew if he lied to her, however, as she always did, so there was little to be gained from deception here. 

“They told me to seek out the wolf cubs, the children of Winterfell. With one would come death, they said, and with another war, and another both. They spoke of a chained wolf, unable to escape his bonds, and the devastation that would follow in its wake, and they spoke of me, of what I must do when... When the time comes.” 

She stayed silent for a while, her lack of words providing no comfort to him, though her facial expression never changed. How many Reeds had come to her with words of dreams, he wondered? How many of his kin had she needed to reassure, to guide along the path that the Old Gods had chosen for them? 

“The burden you have been given is a great one, child. I know not what choice you will make, nor what decision you must be offered, but I know it will be of life or death, and that whatever you choose may ring the death knell of thousands. There is little good in me pretending otherwise, Howland Reed, for you must be ready, when the time comes.” 

It was his own turn to remain silent. He had known for many moons that one day he would be confronted with a choice, an impossible decision, but where or when, and what the choice would even be was clouded to eyes of better sight than his own. 

“Did I ever tell you the story of the black priest, child?” 

Her attention had returned to the plants, her eyes glazed over, a whiteness creeping into the striking green. He looked down on her, feeling pity for one approaching the end of their life. How hard must it be to bid farewell after living so many years? Not knowing what would become of the home she had fought so hard to protect? She liked her stories, and, he thought, perhaps this one was a way for her to take her mind from the closing darkness. He sat atop a tree stump, to watch and listen as she spoke her words. 

“Once, centuries past, there was born a man, fierce and unforgiving, chosen by the gods of the forests, and gifted with great strength and willpower. He followed their teachings and their wisdom to the letter, staunch in his belief and undeterred in his piety. Women feared him, for his temper was legend, and men grew tired of his ways, so, one day, he was sent away, pushed aside by the world of men, sent from his family to a life of nothing.” 

“Resentment and hate grew in him, corrupting his being, and driving him to a land of black darkness. His will broken, he was easy prey for the enchantress that found him. She whispered words of power and glory, of restored honour, and of the fates of the men who had pushed him aside. His mind weak, he heeded them. He lusted for revenge, for his justice, found in the edge of axe and blade, and for peace, to calm the raging storm of his inner mind.” 

As Myra spoke, she seemed to disappear into the words, painting a picture so vivid that he could almost see the man. He would be tall and broad shouldered, with long, dark hair, worn loose and wild, and a thick beard, running down to his waist. His eyes would be dark and piercing, and a scar would run the length of his face, a war wound sustained when he was thrown away by his own kin. He dressed in dark furs, a cloak of inky night flowing from his shoulders. He was a warrior, more so than even Brandon Stark, who he had seen ride underneath the towers of Harrenhal. 

“Eleven sons she bore him, the enchantress, yet only one raised by his side. The others he laid before his weirwood, and were gifted to winter, to the old gods of the frozen north, lands far beyond us now. Everytime he wept, both for himself and for the sons he would not get the chance to love. His firstborn, his wife allowed him to keep, his blood, to rise to the crown of winter that he would one day wear. Such a day never came pass. The black priest and his son were slain, the enchantress vanished away, and so he ended. His choices were poor, and his heart was easily corrupted. You cannot allow yours to be, Howland Reed.” 

Their eyes locked at that, and Howland wondered if the old woods witch spoke of something in particular, something that she had seen. He had been told that what his choice would be was shrouded, even to the keenest of eyes, yet perhaps a sliver of it had wrestled through the haze. Or perhaps she spoke of the woman who had enchanted his heart, who even now would live so far south that he could never go, but whose lilac eyes may haunt his sleepless hours until the day he died. 

He had thought on Ashara Dayne most every day since he had returned. Greywater Watch was his home, and there had never been a greater joy to him than that which its walls brought him, and yet now he knew one. Now he knew the joy that Ashara Dayne could bring him. Could he abandon his home for the hope of that? Even if his father passed, he would be no great lord, and had little enough to hold, let alone give to her family for her hand. His heart was torn in two by a desire for her, but also a knowledge that she could never be his, that her place was in the south, and that their time together might have been and gone, as quickly as the wind came and went. 

“I must ask you something, Myra. What see you of Ashara Dayne, the lady of Starfall?” 

For a few seconds the elderly woman mused upon his words, before answering, her voice slow and steady, as if she were an ancient oak given life. 

“I see much of the fallen star. The choice that must be made, between the wolf and the lizard. War shall come from either. You ask me of Ashara Dayne, and I can give you no further answer. Her fate is too closely tied to yours, young one, but when the time comes, the star must fall again. That is all I can say.” 

So Ashara would have to choose between him and a Stark, probably Ned. He had seen the way that the middle brother had looked at Lady Dayne when they had danced. It was more than just courtesy that lay behind his frosty gaze. What chance would he have next to a Stark of Winterfell, even a second son. Ned could give her walls of safety, men to serve her, and a brood of pups to bring to adulthood. Howland could give her nothing in comparison. It was as he feared, then. 

“She will be wed to the wolf, then. It is done.” 

He tried to sound flat, to keep the upset and the hurt from his voice, as the last remnant of his hope had been dashed by her words. He suspected that he did not fool her. 

“The wolf will wed, that is true, and others shall call their defiance. Shall you be one of them? I know not. The threads of fate rarely run true, child, and no man can know for certain the way they are woven. Do not lose heart, for you have much of your journey left to travel.” 

Her words grew laboured now, and he sensed that she was weary, her day done, and her foresight told. He rose, not wanting to keep her any longer than she needed. Her years were already spread thin, and he saw little need to limit them any further on his behalf. 

“I thank you, lady of the marsh. May you rest well.” 

She bowed her head to him, an acceptance of his departure, yet as he left she grabbed out, taking him by the cuff of the wrist, her gnarled hands forming an almost vice-like grip. 

“I spoke these words to your father once. I pray you heed them also. There is hope in mercy, though few have the strength to see this. Remember the decisions of the Black Priest, and pray that, when the time comes, you can learn from them. Good fortune, Howland Reed, and may you prove your worth to all.” 

Her words ended, and he suspected that meant his time with Myra of the Marsh was at an end. He left her to the flowers, and her song echoed to him, through the swaying trees, even after he was gone. It was mournful and sad, like she was singing for a funeral that she would never get to attend.


End file.
